#I’m sorry this is so sad

[snoelledarts]

Watching the PJO TV show made me rethink a lot of the scenes in the books…

Mostly just how young all the demigods really were. Seeing the actors really put things into perspective, and then I started thinking about the second series and how Nico, younger than all of them, has seen TWO wars by 14 years old.

The scene where he sees Percy at Camp Jupiter, what do you think is running through Nico’s head? He’s barely a teenager, he has this huge crush on this incredibly scary and powerful demigod, and he knows he has to pretend he doesn’t know him because Nico isn’t supposed to be here at this camp…

What do you think was his first emotion? Scared for a war he knows is now coming? Elated that Percy is alive? Horrified that this guy, seemingly the center of everything that has gone wrong for him, is showing up in his life again? Do you think he stopped to consider how serious Percy looked? How different he seems not surrounded by his mother and Annabeth and all of his friends? Do you think he thought about spilling it all and telling Percy who he is? Because Nico is 14 and should not be responsible for a choice like that, and because there’s so little he wouldn’t do for Percy? Do you think it crossed his mind that this Percy, with no memories, might be a Percy he has a chance with? Do you think he beat himself up over that thought for weeks? Do you think he had a hard time looking Annabeth in the eyes when he saw her again, knowing how hopeful he was that Percy would never get his memories back? Even if it was for a second?

…Can you tell I’ve been turning this scene over in my head all day?

[thelordofgifs]

a fic where maglor (or elrond, or anybody else) manages to stop maedhros from jumping into a lava pit?

I’M SO SORRY THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. I DIDN’T FIX IT I MADE IT WORSE.

“If none can release us,” says Maglor, “then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our Oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maedhros looks at him searchingly, and Maglor holds his breath. At last his brother says, “You are right.”

“And?” Maglor asks, not yet daring to smile.

Maedhros steps forward and rests his forehead against the top of Maglor’s head. “Very well,” he says quietly. “Let us surrender to Eönwë. We will go home.”

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes, tears of relief beginning to sting at his eyes, “thank you, thank you—” And he knows what he is asking of Maedhros, knows that it is selfish, knows that his brother is so, so tired: but still he is willing to do this, for Maglor’s sake, and that means everything—

He wakes up.

***

“Wait,” says Maglor, when they spy the guards outside the tent where the Silmarils are kept, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” Maedhros says, tonelessly. His sword is already drawn.

“Not like this,” Maglor says, “no more slaughter, Nelyo, please—”

But Maedhros cannot listen to him, he cannot see another path out, and so Maglor summons up all the power left to him and starts to sing a lullaby: and Maedhros, who after all is so tired, drops to the floor in a dead sleep.

He does not wake until Maglor has dragged him far away from where the host of the Valar are camped; and he is furious, but by then it is too late, and Maglor cannot bring himself to regret it—

He wakes up.

***

They are surrounded, the startled dismayed faces of Elves who knew them long ago encircling them, and Maedhros and Maglor’s swords are wet and bloody but that will not avail them against so many.

“Halt!” comes a clear voice, and the crowd parts before the Herald of Manwë. His shining, terrible face is hard to look at directly.

Maglor sees his chance.

He drops his sword, drops the box that holds the Silmarils, flings himself at the Maia’s feet. “We surrender!” he cries, in a voice that is yet strong and supple, although all other blessings are long fled. “We surrender to the justice of the Valar – we will answer for our crimes – only spare us now—”

He does not raise his head to see Eönwë’s expression, nor the contemptuous ones of the rest of the host, nor even Maedhros’ own: but despite the reckoning that is to come, something in his heart is easy now, for he has put himself, defenceless, at the Maia’s mercy, and hence bound Maedhros too, for Maedhros will not leave him—

He wakes up.

***

“I suppose,” says Maedhros, “we might at least look upon them now.”

They have run some distance from the camp; there will be nobody to chase them down when the light betrays them. Maglor opens the box.

It is empty.

Maedhros makes a choked sound.

“How strange,” Maglor says mildly, “there must have been a mix-up in all the confusion.”

“You!” says Maedhros, outraged: but he is laughing a little as he speaks. “I thought you collided with Elrond by mistake!”

“He’ll give them to Tyelpë,” says Maglor. “Elrond understands, Nelyo. And if Tyelpë holds them—”

“We’re free,” says Maedhros, and he does not sound as though he knows what to do with that. But he is here, and starting to smile, and his grey eyes are clearing as he looks out at ravaged Beleriand, his gaze skimming over the rents of fire in the earth—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning, burning, and he can barely think, and Maedhros is standing at the edge of the chasm, the unforgiving light of the Silmaril making clear the terrible despair on his face, and for once in his life Maglor cannot summon up the words—

“So!” he says at last, and just in time. “So Varda Elentári marks us unworthy! But even if she hallowed the jewels she did not make them, Nelyo, they are our father’s work, and the right to them will always be ours.”

“Do you really believe that, Káno?” Maedhros asks, dreadfully soft.

Maglor doesn’t. He knows what he is. But he was a mighty wordsmith once, and the son of the foremost loremaster of Tirion besides, and he knows how to turn arguments to his own end.

“We crossed the world to get away from their false idea of judgement,” he says firmly. “Why listen to it now? And – and – come away from the edge, Nelyo.”

“Yes,” says Maedhros, and then with more certainty, “yes—”

He wakes up.

***

Maedhros is wavering at the edge of the chasm, the Silmaril blazing in his hand, the fire licking up behind him. He is always blazing, this brilliant brother of his, and surely – surely – nothing could ever snuff him out.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, drop it. Please.”

His own Silmaril is lying on the ground at his feet. He has given up everything he has for it, accursed thing, and it will not take the last person he has left; it will not take Maedhros, he will not let it.

“They burned him too,” says Maedhros, voice dry and desolate. “Morgoth. I saw his hands. They were black and withered.”

His own hand is crumbling, now. Still he will not let the Silmaril go.

Maglor’s face is wet with tears. “You are not he,” he says; “you are not as bad as Morgoth, Nelyo.”

“I cannot have dealt out much less death than he,” Maedhros counters.

“But you are loved,” says Maglor, “even now – if you would only step away from the edge – I love you, Nelyo, please—”

Maedhros stares at him. Stands very still. Opens his charred and ruined fingers, at last, letting the Silmaril fall into the fire. Looks down as if there is nothing stopping him from following it.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor, and Maedhros looks back at him and takes a step forward and away from the fire and then another and another until he is crashing into Maglor’s waiting arms—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning and his soul is burning and Maedhros, standing at the edge of the chasm, is burning too; or perhaps he was always burning, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. It was always going to end like this, Maglor has always known it, and yet – because he is selfish, because a part of him still believes he can cheat the shape of his own narrative – he cannot quite accept it.

There is nothing left to him, now, no clever arguments or impassioned sincerity or cunning tricks; and his throat, like the rest of him, is burning, too much so to beg anymore. Is he already screaming? But Maedhros is still standing there, his form wavering like a mirage in the heat from the fire. There – there – gone.

Maglor is screaming now, unquestionably.

Perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is just a dream, like those he had, repeatedly, after Maedhros was rescued alive from Thangorodrim: and he digs his nails into the terrible burn on his hand, for surely the pain will ground him, and now, now he will wake up, he must wake up—

He never does.

[irlplasticlamb]

kazia parkerowska aka spider star is an 18 years old polish doomer art student who got bitten by a radioactive spider and then convinced (khe khe forced) into a superhero role by her kooky hippie auntie majka. woohoo. nothing better than to save the world when you don’t give an absolute shit!

prints + merch + commission info

[astearisms]

fionna and cake drawings before and after watching the episodes so far. it’s nostalgic and somehow cathartic and poignant and relatable and—it just started

[hopelessvalentines]

“didn’t you have to promise, a hundred times not to die?”

[the-phantom-peach]

Meeting the Light Dragon ✨🐉

[tagged as spoilers!]

[rotting-bitch]

I usually get addicted to literally anything that distracts me from the fact that I exist

[ewwww-what]

You are not a coward. You have a goddamn medical condition, alright?

[the-darkestminds]

@chunkypossum

[ask-symbrock]

Hey Eddie...

You alright? You like kinda sad...

Guess I gotta slow down on drinking. I’ll actually get hangovers again.

[hungharrington]

spread

hey guys long time no see ! this was purely inspired bcos i think its HOT when guys hold their gfs legs open when they fuck. naturally im thinking of steve <3 enjoy! MDNI this entire blog is 18+ fem!reader

Fire burns beneath your skin.

Pure flames of desire that seem to start in your gut, licking and settling alight every nerve in your body. The fire within you hums and you burn up deliciously in it, trying so hard to stay still and feel everything.

Your breath hits the pillow, its soft feel pressed up against your cheek. Steve's chest drags against your bare back. You can feel the muscles of his chest shift, the drag of his chest hair as his bicep bulges over and over from a repeated motion.

The motion being his hand, buried between your thighs.

"Want you to..." Steve's voice breathes in your ear, that rasp in it that clues you in to how turned on he is. How keyed up he is. His forearm nudges at your thigh, pressing it outwards. "Want you to keep 'em spread for me, baby."

You swallow a gasp as his thumb passes over your clit teasingly. You nod against the pillow and your thighs part further without even thinking about it.

"That's it," Steve coos. This close, you can feel the curl of his smile against your neck. He's practically purring when he says, "That's my girl."

You're spreading yourself for him, your drooling cunt on display for him to play with, and the thought only fuels the dribbling, burning hot feeling in your gut. A whimpery noise pulls from your throat.

Steve kisses the skin of your neck generously, slow languid kisses that make your nipples peak against the sheets. A scrape of teeth. Heat burns between the shared skin.

Long, thick fingers draw circles at your entrance and you can't help how your back arches to push down onto them, a stuttering gasp escaping you. He's been teasing you for too damn long tonight.

"S-Steve."

His name has never sounded so filthy.

"Mm? What is it, baby?"

He's still circling your entrance tantalizingly, his thumb dancing over your clit so perfectly, so teasingly. Asshole. Teasing, stupidly hot, too-good-with-his-fingers asshole.

"Please," Is all you can manage, voice weak.

It's all you need for Steve give in, sinking his finger into your cunt and pulling simultaneous groans from both of you. You can feel the rumble of it against your spine. Your head tips back instinctively, your cunt fluttering in bliss.

Steve doesn't give you a moment to relax into it, another finger joining as he pumps them in. Lewd noises leak out as his fingers setting a punishing pace. They curl expertly, hitting the spot that makes your hole clench around him with every thrust of his fingers.

You clutch the sheets, your leg quivering and threatening to fall. A moan you can't contain pools in your chest and you bury your face in the pillow to muffle it.

Your hand shoots down to hold Steve's forearm — half to make sure he won't stop, half to keep yourself from falling apart too soon.

"God, look at you," Steve murmurs, his voice hot with praise.

All your whimpery noises, pressed into the pillow, going straight to his cock. It thickens in his boxers, straining against the fabric and Steve shivers in anticipation.

You can feel his trail of kisses up your neck but you know he’s watching the way your hips rock down onto his fingers. A fiery desire licks up your spine at the hardness you feel behind you. You feel yourself grow slicker at the feel of it, your mouth almost watering.

Steve's hips rolls up against yours roughly, no doubt eager to gain the same pleasure you were getting. His quiet grunts mix with your whiny breathes, pleasure burning and bubbling hotter and hotter.

Then a filthy moan scrapes out his throat when you clench down around his fingers — which disappear between your legs in a moment.

You barely get a moment to pout, a soft whine sounding, before you hear the fabric of his boxers being pushed down. It's frantic sounding, like he can't wait another second, like he needs to be buried inside you. You need it just as bad. You whine again.

"Sh, sh, sh, sh," Steve soothes, all too aware of your every noise. His needy baby. "I know, I got you."

His hand finds the bend in your knee and he holds it for you, keeping you spread for him. His nose nuzzles along your neck, kissing and suckling as he finally, finally, sinks his cock into you in one slow stroke.

You keen. A pitiful cry escapes your lips, the coil in your tummy twisting tighter at the gravelly moan that Steve makes. His hot breath of your neck, his closeness, the stretch of him inside you — you quiver and whimper, your cunt gushing on his cock.

"Oh f-fuck, honey," There's that whiny hitch in Steve's words now, the way there always is when nears pussy drunk.

You can feel the urge to close your shaky legs with how you cunt throbs in pleasure but Steve's hand is still tucked under your knee, keeping them apart, as he starts to rock into you.

The lewd noises from before return, the wet sound of your slick as Steve ruts into you. His hips move fast, his pace building.

A ragged moan drools from your lips and you push your head back instinctively, searching for more Steve. He's there already, his kisses resuming up your neck feverishly, his thrusts not faltering.

"Ste— Stevie," You gasp needily, letting one of your hands slip over your waist to hold him however you can. Your fingers find his bicep and you clutch it, breathy noises punched out with every roll of his hips. Steve groans loudly.

"God, you feel so fuckin' good around me," He pants, thick cock driving into you steadily enough to make you melt. He drops his hold on your leg for a moment, his hand darting up to your face. He pushes back the hair in your face, his lips kissing the exposed skin as he does.

"My pretty fuckin' girl," He hums, voice wavering in his own pleasure.

Your thighs start to ease close without thinking and Steve snakes his hand down, slapping lightly at your clit with his large hand. It makes you squeal, your legs jumping apart and your hole clenching down on his cock deliciously. Steve moans again, a thread of a whine in it.

"Told you," He huffs breathlessly, lips dragging up the sensitive skin of your neck. He nips at your ear. You whimper. "To keep 'em spread for me. You can- you can do that f'me, can't you?"

It's a trick question because there's no way you can answer anything right now. Steve's thrusts slow for a moment, as if he's giving you a moment's reprieve, only for you to realise it's for a more sinister reason all together.

He shifts forward and lets his hand find its place under your knee again, holding your legs apart, and this time when he fucks back in, your whole body twitches.

You make a pitiful noise, something between a moan and a gasp. And then you make it again and again, as Steve drives his cock into your cunt, hitting the spot every single time.

"Oh, there she is." Steve coos. "Is that it, yeah? That spot feel good, honey?"

It would nearly be embarrassing, the little uh, uh, uh's you keep making, if it didn't feel so fucking good. You thought you were on fire before but now you're molten. Your skin blazes. Pleasure twists the coil in your gut tighter. You clench down on Steve's cock and gush at the whimpery noise he makes.

"I- ngh, shit—" He's panting now, beginning to become undone at the silky feel of you wrapped around him. "I asked -ah- you a question, baby."

You wail softly into the pillow, head curling in. Your head swims in delirious pleasure, the question he asked a minute ago long gone. You whine at his cruelty, your mind utterly distracted by the filthy squelchy noises he's fucking out of you.

"B-Baby can't think right now?" Steve teases, his thrusts turning shallow but faster. He hikes your leg up higher, pulled back towards his hairy thigh. "Getting fucked too good, huh?"

"Uh huh," Your voice comes out all whiny, the words drooling out your mouth. Your cheek brushes the pillow as you reply, eyes screwing up as the tightness in your stomach looms closer, hotter, nearly bursting. You grip his bicep tighter.

"Pleasepleaseplease, don't- don't stop, baby, I'm— I'm," The words rush out of you in a frantic babble. "Please, fuck- I'm, uh,"

A moan warbles out of Steve at your pleading, feeling his balls draw up as his own orgasm creeps up on him. He dutifully listens to his baby, still fucking himself into you with a lustful fervor.

"Gonna cum?" He grunts. You whine.

"I wanna see you cum," Steve rasps, his tummy flexing as he tries to hold back his mounting pleasure. "C'mon, baby, cum all over my cock, yeah? Show me how good it is."

His hand slips from your beneath your knee once more, sliding down to pat at your clit and it's all it takes. You unravel. The heat in your bloodstream gives way to pure euphoria, confetti pumping through your body as you gasp and moan. Your cunt clenches and flutters, throbbing in just the right way.

Steve's hips stutter, the sudden snugness of you pushing him over the edge. It's everything to hear the little inhale he does; the whimper he makes as his cock twitches inside you, dribbling hot ropes of cum.

He keeps moving, milking out every dreg of pleasure for the both of you. Your hand on his arm shifts, moving up, searching for his face and when you tangle your hands in his hair, it's to turn and kiss him. It's sloppy, your lips barely aligned. Still, it hums with love.

The kiss breaks. Slowly, the pleasure and his movements taper off, til Steve's easing himself out of you. A warm buzz sits over the room, satisfaction rolling off the both of you in waves. You feel faint, a sluggish happy feeling settling into your skin.

"Mm, you okay?" Steve's voice sounds from behind you.

You're still snuggled close together, Steve dropping his head into the crook of your neck to nuzzle into it. You huff a happy laugh, reaching a hand up to bury it into his hair like you know he loves.

"More than okay." You sigh happily. Steve's responding hum vibrates against your shoulder. "You just fucked my brains out, baby."

Steve makes a little noise, a half-hearted snort. He kisses the curve of your shoulder again. "Just doin' my job."

[snoelledarts]

// And I was so young when I behaved 25. //

Some Nico di Angelo concept sketches that never made it past the idea phase. Staring at these and listening to my saddest playlist heals my inner child in a way I cannot describe. All of the demigods deserved to get to just be kids.

Wanna be sad with me? Listen to my favorite Nico-coded song while u stare at it:

[gatoburr0]

[rinnstars]

soulmates!

matching puzzle pieces: mimicking you unconsciously away from home

itoshi rin x reader: fluff, drabble, pro!player rin (after nel arc), long distance relationship, yearning/longing, not proofread + likes and reblogs are appreciated!

one thing rin has learnt whilst overseas is that you and him might really be connected by souls, by ribs, and by heart perhaps too.

strict routines he’s stuck to since he was just fourteen — wake up, open the windows, take deep breaths, stretching, yoga, mediation shifted in its own ways to accommodate you back when he had first gotten together with you: to waking up and looking at you with the light outside from the windows shining perfectly at your face that makes him gulp a little, staring hard and long whilst tracing your face as gently as possible, indulging in the sugary-sweet moment before returning back to his routine like a robot. its what he’s used to, what he’s comfortable enough, what he knows. and recently, he’s been mimicking you, he thinks: closing his eyes immediately at the bright light in his room the same way you bury your face in his face when you first wake up away from the “bright” lights in his room, drinking a cup of coffee that he swore he wouldn’t drink despite making it for you every morning like clockwork albeit with much less sugar than you would have added, and opening his phone the first thing he does right after it all the same way you open your phone and flash him essentially in his bedroom with your bright phone screen that illuminates the now matching photo of you and him beaming at the camera the day he left.

maybe its rin’s way of feeling your presence in his life now that its back to before he met you — just him and football, wearing a different but similarly stuffy and claustrophobic football jersey that marks his name at the back of it. bitter coffee that still smells like the kitchen that brings him back memories of you and him attempting to fix the coffee machine whilst laughing together, your smile imprinted in his mind, phone screen that still makes him unconsciously grin even though its been months since he’s left japan of that selfie with yours and his cheeks squished against each other, beaming at the camera as though it would be the last time right before he enters the gate to somewhere else that he wonders if you too look at it a little longer before you enter your phone, or hand sanitizer that smells exactly like the one you used to use, and gave to him whenever you two were out together that reminds him of home, reminds him of you.

and he’s sure his teammates dont miss the subtle changes to him. how his diet has changed strangely — desserts that fill his meal and sweets that he munches on in the dorm room that he used to buy from the convenience store for you to eat together in class and then in his room that tastes a little less sweet now that its not from your mouth to his, hotter food that you’ve made him grown used to in contrast to his old days eating leftovers and microwaveable meals from the fridge that still burns his tongue a little, sticking out his tongue as though he’s on field at the temperature even now the same way you do too, picking at his vegetable unconsciously the same way you do before pushing it onto his plate whilst smiling, each pickled vegetable even now resembling you in his mind as he pushes it around his plate. how he’s behaving all strangely too in contrast to the rin who they met just a few weeks ago at neo egoist league — how he’s more accustomed to laughing in the same tone you do, having to cup his mouth at the realisation, looking away awkwardly before being tackled by shidou (that broke out into half a fight), how he fiddles even more with his things than before as though they were your hands that he finds comfort in interlocking and fiddling with whilst lying right beside yours, how he looks a little longer at his phone screen that almost made shidou grab his phone (to his luck, he managed to dodge the attack and not get into a fight whilst in it: messaging you that as though expecting a praise). or even just the way he talks now — the tone and accent melting and merging into yours and his own mid sentence, your catchphrases popping out of his mouth unconsciously like bubblegum that draws strange looks (they dont understand it, he thinks), references to yours and by extension his favourite games and shows that flies by everyone else’s head that he misses your laugh that should ring along with his lame jokes.

and rin’s even more sure that the media doesnt miss how he’s changed from just that few weeks. how his closet doesn’t quite fit him right — sanrio and chikawa sweaters that are both a little too tight to have belonged to him and a little uncharacteristic for him to sport on his day out, silver necklaces that they just cant see the heart of, chalking it up to a new impulsive purchase despite him never wearing any in his winning match, silly keychains on the bag he brings out that catches the camera flash just right into the newspapers. how his last interview went even: seeming more nervous whilst attempting to make eye contact with the camera (knowing youre watching him live), stuttering a little too much whilst answering a question about romantic relationship, how his glued up paper ring catches the whole internet. how his internet presence (without PR) reflects something the internet wants to dig a little more — from his instagram stories about another game win whether that be on valorant or league of legends with a duo with a censored tag (of yours), screenshots of movies and shows he’s watching with the side of facetime featuring your face censored with colour brushes from the tools section, outfit pictures that are first vetted by you and then posted with a uncharacteristically cute water bottle you bought for him as a joke that he still uses to this very day.

its now that he can’t be fully with you that rin wonders if he’s taken advantage of all these years you’ve been there for him, each memory haunts him through his own unconscious movements, speech and thoughts: as though you’ve fully melted yourself on him, your soul and his intertwined and ribs replacing each others: becoming one another. missing, longing is not a strong enough word for it all — heartache when he lies in his bed all alone yearning for your warmth hands that lingers on his body, cuddling him at night that makes him dream of days long after his career in a small apartment all decorated by whatever you want living a life with just you and him, that tightening of his heart whenever he sees you in his everyday life: those red roses that he used to buy from the school shop, any song form the playlist you and him collated that he plays everyday, every second he can, things you’ve bought for him that he’s brought along this practically eons long trip to france, the dryness in his mouth when he looks at your face through facetime: noting every single changes from the way your fringe has gotten longer, to the small leftover seaweed bites form the corner of your mouth, wondering how you were just so perfect in his eyes. its not human he feels: this hunger and craving he feels deep in his ribs, in his guts, in his very bone and blood, every second he counts, every day he strikes off from his calendar, every football match he wins just for a chance for you and him to reunite.

and this time, he’s sure of one thing, no matter what his PR agency thinks, no matter what fans thinks, no matter what the world thinks: rin wants to kiss you, melting his lips against yours as he holds up the winning world cup trophy, in front of the whole field, in front of the whole audience, in front of the whole world — because if there’s anything he knows now is that you and him are one matching puzzle piece, you and him are one soul merged together dictated by the universe, you and him are meant to be: and he’ll love you for the rest of eternity.

[casually-eat-my-soul]

Stiles coming to the realization that he’s in love with Derek and just resigning himself to it. He knows that this love is different than the way he loved Lydia. It’s deeper and built on devotion and protection. But he’s still not enough,

Derek who is good and persistent, could never love stiles. Stiles knows he loves with people who are always just out of reach for him. He knew this when he fell in love with Lydia in the third grade. He felt it when told his mother that he loved her for the last time. He came to terms with it when he begged his dad to stop drinking, to rest, to eat better. And he resigned himself to it as he watches Derek hale smile. He is in love and knows that Derek will never love him back.

He just can’t imagine a world were Derek hale loves him back in the same way. So Stiles will love him, quietly but fiercely. Derek will never have to worry about anything with Stiles by his side. And Stiles will remain by his side for as long as he can. And maybe one day he’ll be able to watch Derek fall in love with someone else without it feeling like he’s dying but deep down he’s know that will never happen.

[rotting-bitch]

I once killed a plant by giving it too much water. I worry that love is violence.